The Edge of Insanity
by LauralynShawn
Summary: Jon Watson is broken ever since Sherlock jumped from the roof. She can't seem to believe that he is dead, or a fraud. Then a string of events lead her closer to the edge of insanity with no way of turning back. High-action, torture, mystery, and angst, all right here. Fem!John and guy!Sherlock. Rated T for cursing. Now COMPLETE!
1. 221B

**The Edge of Insanity...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters.**

**Chapter 1: 221B**

* * *

"...And he jumped. The greatest man I had ever known jumped off the edge, falling faster than I ever thought possible. I watched as his coat billowed around him, as if it was trying to keep him afloat. It was when his body hit the ground that his last words finally sunk into my brain. He was a fraud, an amateur, just like the rest of us. But, I have lived with that man for more than a year. I know that he would never tell me a lie. Perhaps that final problem was just the beginning.

The End.  
-JW"

I hit enter and closed the laptop, never wanting to see that damn blog again. All it did was remind me of him. My therapist said it would be good to write about him once more, to get it off my chest. But all it makes me want to do is curl up in a corner and cry. Sherlock Holmes was my only friend, and now, he's dead, gone. Or is he? That thought has played over and over in my head for months. Is he dead?

My head dropped into my hands. I let my hair grow out to about my shoulders, and it was way overdue to get it cropped back to my prefered height. I smiled at the memory of my first meal with Sherlock Holmes. He seemed to know everything about me. He knew that my family wanted a boy, but got a girl, and that I always tried to live up to Dad's expectations just from my more masculine name. He knew that I was a military doctor in a war from my head, my tan, my gender, and my limp. He knew that I lost a man whom I loved very much, but not in the war. No, he knew he wasn't a fighter. He knew that I was kidnapped and the man I loved died because of that. All from a ring I wear around my neck. And, he only got one thing wrong. The man I lost was my brother, the non-fighter, the 'girl' my family never wanted. He drank himself to death when they heard that I was being held captive, and was most likely, dead..

I began to laugh. If it wasn't for that, I'd probably have drunk myself to death too. But that was all fake. He looked me up on the internet. It is possible. I've done it myself. Jon Watson. It got plenty of results. My blog was the first one. God, I should really delete that thing. But I can't. I can't bring myself to do it. Maybe it's for the best.

_Beep, Beep_. Time to go to work. I drag myself off the couch/bed/table and wince at the pain shooting up my left leg. The telly drones on about some murders of women happening, all suffocated with a strange wire of some kind. Usually, that wound entrance me, or should I say Sherlock. Now, all it does is punch me in the face.

I pull on a pair of comfortable jeans and a nice, baggy, sweater and head out for work. I remember how Sherlock thought I was gay. It was quite funny, actually. It was my turn to tell him to look deeper. He got it quickly, of course. Told me that I am tough, tougher than most men, and hid that with baggy clothes to fool people. He also pointed out that every shirt I own is long-sleeved. Why? I have scars. Scars I do not care to show to anyone. Even him. I never showed Sherlock my scars, and he never spoke about them after that. I sighed, and sat down on a bench, just waiting for a taxi. I didn't feel like standing. My leg was killing me, and I had no clue where the Hell my cane was. It'd been so long since I used it.

"That's Jon Watson!" I heard someone say.

"That's the man who worked with the murderer?"

"Yeah! Can you believe it? The poor bloke is insane!" That did it. I was tired of the smart remarks, the stares, the snickers behind my backs, the columns in the paper. Like I couldn't see them. The poor, British Bonnie and Clyde some American called me. A Love-Struck accomplice with no brains. How dare they talk about him like that? How dare they call me a dumb woman?

I turned to see two men. One was tall, but not as tall as the late Holmes. The other was significantly shorter with grey hair and frail limbs. I got up. The taller man was lean, hardened with excercise and grueling training. There was no way I could take him, aware that was. Surprise, though, was a completely different matter. The men walked away with two broken noses and six bruised ribs. They would be fine, their egos were severely broken, but they would be fine. The cops didn't agree with me so much. Lestrade sat down in front of me.

"Please tell me they did something awful to you." Lestrade asked, begged, rubbing the bridge of his nose. So many times I had been in this office, talking to him about lunch, or his current girlfriend, while Sherlock was "solving" the case. _"You do not believe them, do you Watson?"_My muscles tensed at the voice. It was...familiar. Lestrade was staring at me. He mustn't have heard anything.

"Are you going to say anything?" He asked. I just sighed and leaned back in my chair, the stoic face I learned from training clouding all confusion.

"You want me to lie." I said. "So no."

"...Jon...I miss him too. God, I never thought I would say that." Lestrade said. He knew what this was about. Sherlock called him stupid, but in reality, the detective was brilliant. " I can't believe he was a fraud, and I know you can't either"

"So? He's dead. He's gone. It's too late." I lied. Or did I? Why couldn't I just forget about him? _"Because a sliver of light is in you, Watson."_Again I tensed at the voice. It was his voice. His voice.

_"No. It's not. And you know that Jon."_

"What can I do? Nothing. I can't prove anything." I practically yelled. Lestrade tried to get something out, but I erupted out of the metal chair, trying not to cry in pain. _"Yes you can."_

"Oh, piss off!" I yelled, in my head, at the voice.

_"That isn't very nice. Come on Watson. I thought there was a light. Think."_

"About what!" That was like him. Always so ambiguous. But it wasn't him. It couldn't be.

_"The people. The men."_

"So?" I retorted, out loud this time.

_"What did you see?"_

"Uh.." I had to think. The taller man, he was probably a soldier at once. I could tell from the way he kept his hands by his side, it was like me. The smaller man, what should I see about him? He was wearing a blue, no a green flannel shirt and khaki trousers. He was wearing something around his neck. A silver chain. And his hands. There were scratches. Small, yet wide. A cat?

_"A cat? Seriously? One man is a hardened soldier, and his friend is, how would you put it, a creepy old man. Think again."_

"Hmph." I snorted and thought again. Scratches. A Chain. He was flaunting something to me. Then it hit me as hard as I hit the pavement on the fateful day. The women. He killed the women. The other man, his accomplice, kidnapped them. Only a brute could do that.

"Lestrade?"

"Are you ready to talk, Ms. Watson?" He asked with a snort.

"Yes, those women you found-"

"I can't tell you about them." Lestrade sighed, "You don't work with us any more. I can't just give you information."

"Did you find skin under their nails?" I asked. Greg sat back and let out a long, slow sigh.

"Of course we did. If you were dying, would you put up a fight?" He asked. I didn't answer that. I couldn't answer that.

"Check the DNA to the man who I punched. The shorter one."

"Why should I?"

"Please, Greg? I need to know this." If it was him, then-then everything changed. I could prove it. I could _prove_it.

Lestrade walked back into the room and held the door open to me.

"You're free to go."

"So, it was him?"

"Yup, the older gentleman's DNA matched perfectly. We got him. But, how did you know?" He asked as I hobbled by. A ghost of a smile lingered over my lips.

"I deduced it." It was a rather crude deduction by any means, and it could have easily not been him, but that fact was I did it. I deduced something about a man just from looking. That means he isn't a fraud. He wasn't a fraud. An amateur. It really is possible. I did it! I ran into the street, a cab screeching to a halt.

"You're in a hurry, ma'am. Where to?"

"Baker Street. 221B."

* * *

**Duh DUh DUUUUHHHHH...what will happen next? Will Jon be able to prove that Sherlock was not a fraud? Do you want to find out? Leave your thoughts and comments here at that wee little button. Please no flames. Thanks for reading, and I hope I can hear from you soon!**


	2. The Game is Afoot

**The Edge of Insanity...**

**Disclaimer: Same...**

**Chapter 2: The Game is Afoot**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson is such a kind old woman. As soon as she saw me getting out of the taxi, she ran out of the flat and grabbed my arm, helping me up the stairs. I tried to thank her, but she wouldn't let me talk.

"Oh, Jon! It's been too long since I've seen you! You won't believe it-" She walked off to the kitchen to start a kettle. "No one wants to live here. Everyone knows it was Sherlock's place, and will not even think about moving in. If I don't get someone in here quick-I have to move." Her words took a moment to sink in as I stared at the place. Boxes covered in dust were everywhere, but on one wall, there was a yellow smiley face covered in bullet holes. A few tears escaped my eyes as I ran my fingers over the ruined wall.

I don't understand why the sociopath meant so much to me...he was never truly nice to me, he never truly showed any emotions...and yet, behind every "I don't care" where the words "I need you." We needed each other. That's what I think. He needed an anchor to reality. And I, I needed a balloon to float away from it. Together, we kept each other sane(ish). He still left toes in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, and shot the wall, oh Hell, I missed him. I missed him so much.

Mrs. Hudson noticed my state and came over, placing a steady hand on my shoulder. She sat me down in my chair with a cup of tea while she sat in his spot. I raised the cup of to my mouth, my hand twitching uncontrollably.

What was I thinking? I can't prove anything! He's gone! He's gone! He's gone. I threw the cup at the damn smiley face and broke into uncontrollable sobs. As my chest heaved, Mrs. Hudson tried to comfort me. I had never cried like that before. Never. All the pain I had built up in there for years came pouring, spilling, out of me. The war. Him. Me. It wasn't until then that I realized how much I hate myself.

I'm weak. Pathetic, I kept telling myself. I could never clean his name. I wasn't smart enough, or strong enough, Hell, I could barely stand! But his voice came back. It was the last time I ever heard that voice in my head.

"I don't have friends, Jon. I just have one." I continued to cry, I couldn't stop, but I felt better. At peace. Maybe, just maybe I could do this. I could wipe his name clean. Once I could speak, I told Mrs. Hudson that I was moving back in. I shouldn't have moved out. I should have known 221B Baker Street would be my home forever.

The Science of Deduction. It was my one source of knowledge from him. The one thing that I could use to find the truth about everything. I read all of his articles throughout the entire night. I took notes. I read some of his experiment results. I searched his computer for anything, anything that could help. Nothing besides the website was helpful.

_Beep, Beep_. Time for work. Which I _never_went to yesterday. I groaned and got out of my chair. My eyes were bloodshot and watery still, but thankfully my face wasn't red. I was about to leave when I saw a familiar object sticking out of the closet. My cane. I grabbed it and made my way down the stairs, where I hailed a cab.

Steve saw me and smiled. He probably covered for me yesterday. I couldn't thank that man enough. He laughed off my apologies, saying it was nothing. He was too kind to me. It was a good thing it never worked out between us, I would have hurt him so much.

"Alright. See you Monday, Jon!" Steve called out as his usual goodbye. I yelled see you later back and walked out of the hospital. I should have known. If Sherlock was here, he would have actually _listened_ to Lestrade's words.

Two strong arms grabbed me and threw me into a dark alley. I sputtered blood out of my mouth that was gushing from my nose. The man loomed over me and kicked me in the ribs. They cracked under the force of his boot, leaving me to scream out. Could anyone hear me? I dug into my pockets, but my gun wasn't there. It was at home. Dammit. I was lifted up by my jacket. The taller man's gruff face met mine.

"Hello, girlie." American. Why didn't I notice that before? That was one of the first things on the Science of Deduction, and the most elementary.

"Let me go." I ordered, kicking him in the groin. He dropped me for a moment, and my head whacked down on the concrete. My eyes began to flutter close against my will, and soon, the world went dark.

"C'mon girlie, wake up." I heard the gruff voice say as I was kicked in the ribs once more. The pain was too much, too much. I screamed again, the burning sensation flaring up with a simple noise. I tried to move, but my arms and legs were bound together. The floor was cold and hard, I was in a building of some kind. A-A Factory? No. No. A Warehouse? Perhaps. It was dark, but I could make out the form of a man standing above me.

"You've made the boss very angry."

"The boss? You're little friend is in jail." I managed to get out between shallow breaths. I could not take a breath any deeper without my side withering up in pain. I had to have two, no, definitely three broken ribs.

"Ha! You think that man was my boss? You really are an idiot."

"You work for someone else?" I asked, trying to milk any information I could out of this situation. I've been captured before. I've been tortured. There was nothing worse they could do to me.

"Of course!"

"Shhhhhh, my boy, she's just playing with you." A sing-song voice came from all corners of the building. I knew that voice. It could only belong to one _dead_psychopath. "Sit her up. I want to have some fun."

Hands gripped my shoulders and pulled me up of the ground and up on a chair. I was bound to the tall chair, then a light came on. It was bright, blurring my vision for a moment. I saw the figure of a beast walking towards me, its gate strange and melodic. I opened my eyes wider as it got closer, its snout taking on the appearance of a man's face. A man with dark features and the eyes of a demon.

"No." I breathed.

"YES!" He yelled, throwing his head back and holding his arms out wide. A song began to play from nowhere. It was classical, but I didn't care about it. I cared about him.

"NO!" I screamed this time, pulling against my bonds. There was a gun on the table close to me. If only I could get it.

"I missed you too, Ms. Watson." He cooed, dancing around my chair.

"Go to Hell."

"That's not a very nice way to talk to me." He pouted with his lips making a sad face.

"I said go to Hell." I spat, actually spitting on his face. He wiped the spit off, his face going cold. How could _he _be alive? After everything! He was alive!

"He died for you."

"What?" I asked, confused.

"Your dear friend, Jon. He died for you. It was pathetic. He let emotions beat him. It was soooooo easy." He said with a sad tone. "I was hoping to have fun breaking him. But, he broke like a twig, literally." His gleaming black eyes met mine, and he looked me up and down, hungrily.

"But, you...you are going to be fun. I always thought you were the weak one. I should have known the pet would be stronger than it's master. Remember when you were willing to kill me, and yourself, just to save him? How cute." He whispered into my ear. I felt his tongue, his hot tongue, lick the inside of my ear. It was wet, slimy, nasty. I tried to pull away, but the chair was held tight in his hands.

"You_ were_wrong." I said, agreeing with him. He pulled away from me, a smile on his face.

"I knew I was."

"I _am_stronger than you think. I will kill you. I will kill you slowly, painfully. I will show the world that Jim Moriarty does I will make you wished you never did."

"Ooo! Things are getting fun now, aren't they!" He clapped his hands together to the beat of the song. "I should have done this to begin with. Imagine, if he could watch me break you. It would eat him from the inside out."

"You can't break me." I said quietly. Not when I'm already broken...His face pressed eerily close to mine.

"Let's see about that, Ms. Watson." He hit a button, and a machine began to whirl. Moriarty grabbed a chain that came down from the ceiling. On its end was a crude, rusty tow hook. "Do you want to hear a story?"

"No."

"Once upon a time, because that's how all good stories start, a little minnow was lost in the big bad river. It was alone and sad, until one day the little minnow met a trout!" The glint appeared in his eyes again as he told his horrible tale. He began to trace the hook with his long fingers. "Together, the two were unstoppable. They went everywhere together. It was _disgusting_." He said the word disgusting with such hatred that it sent a shiver down my spine.

"One day, the trout decided to try to stop the fisherman from catching poor little fishies. The minnow of course, followed its friend. The trout didn't stand a chance against the fisherman's cunning mind and charming good looks. Then, all that was left was the little minnow, who was once again, all alone. The little minnow swore to get the fisherman. But it didn't stand a chance against his HOOK." At the word hook, the maniac dug the curved piece of metal into my right shoulder. I screamed. There was nothing more I could do. As my body racked with pain, every nerve withering in pure pain, I screamed out _his_name. He couldn't help me though. No one could.

"And the minnow, well the little minnow was pinched up from the water and drug to the surface." Moriarty cut my bonds and kicked the chair out from under me. I could hear the bones and tendons and muscle snapping, crunching, _tearing_as all my weight landed on that hook. I dug my teeth into my lip, drawing blood immediately. I couldn't give Moriarty the satisfaction of hearing me scream again. With my trembling left hand, I pulled myself up by holding onto the chain, trying to take my weight off the hook. The entire rainbow swam through my eyes, signs of losing consciousness.

"The minnow struggled and begged for mercy, but the fisherman did not listen." Moriarty sang out, pushing me. I twirled around the room, the colors swirling my vision. I couldn't blackout. Not now. I let out a whimper as Moriarty grabbed my leg and pulled down on it. My hand grasped at the chain, hopelessly trying to hold on.

"And no one ever tried to mess with the fisherman again. The END. What did you think of my story, Jon?"

"It.." I took a shaky breath, "Needs a...new...ending." Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. He laughed until he was bent over and holding his sides.

"I knew you would be more fun, Ms. Watson. All Sherlock did was cry." I ignored his comment. I heard Sherlock's voice. I knew he was crying, but I didn't, couldn't, picture it.

"I think...the minnow...should..kill the fisherman." I said through shaky breaths. My left hand was getting sweaty, and the chain was getting slippery. "The minnow...should...stab the fisherman with his own hook." I tried to look at him seriously, but my hand slipped and I felt my shoulder rip from its usual position. I couldn't hold back the scream. Quickly, I wiped my hand off on my shirt and grabbed the chain once more.

"This is why you are so much fun, Jon. You may think you are on the side of the angels, but no. You're a killer. A cold-hearted killer. Remember the poor boy you killed in Afghanistan? What was his name? I can't seem to remember, but he was so sweet, and innocent. And you put a bullet in his head. Sure, you were suffering from PTSD, but what right did that give you? And what about the poor man you killed to save Sherlock? He was a murderer, but what gave you the right to kill him?" His voice grew louder with each person.

"You killed a smuggler, a thief, a murderer, a rapist, and the second, sorry, third most brilliant man on the face of the planet."

"What?" I asked, tears streaming down my face as much from the pain as from the images of all those I killed being brought back up.

"Sherlock. If it weren't for you making him weak, he would be alive and fine, and I would be dead. You're a monster Ms. Jon Watson!" He pushed me up against a wall. "A MONSTER!"

"NO!" I screamed. I am not a monster. I killed those people because they were going to kill other more innocent people. And I did not kill Sherlock Holmes. I saved him. I-I s-saved him from insanity. I pulled him back from the edge of insanity, but I couldn't pull him back from the edge of Bart's. And this man-Jim Moriarty. He's the real monster. He killed hundreds, thousands, of innocent people! He killed Sherlock Holmes! He killed my best and only friend.

My foot found a nail in the wall big enough for me to push myself up. There was no time to think. In a split second, I pushed up on the nail, and used my left hand to grab the hook and pull it out. Blood gushed from the wound, sign that a major artery was punctured. I fell to the ground, clutching my useless limb. I stood up, confused by Moriarty's look of shock.

"Good job!" He exclaimed, clapping madly. "Very good job! I didn't think you had it in you, Jon. I really didn't. But you proved me wrong, just like everybody else. Now, what are you going to do."

"I'm going to kill you." I said, trying to keep my brain focused as I walked. Each step sent a wave of pain that shook my brain and threatened to take my consciousness. I should be unconscious, but I wasn't. I couldn't be. My bloody left hand grasped the hilt of the handgun. I managed to get it cocked and ready to go. Moriarty put his hands behind his neck and kneeled down.

"Go ahead." He said, his dark eyes stabbing me. "Shoot me. I dare you. Shoot me, and lose Sherlock Holmes forever."

My finger stopped as it was pulling back on the trigger. A frown formed on Moriarty's face.

"Too bad. I thought you were stronger than that Ms. Watson."

"It's Dr. Watson. Now tell me where Sherlock is you bastard." I yelled before firing the gun off near him, not hitting him, but near him. Moriarty looked back up into my eyes.

"You're one complicated woman, Dr. Watson."

"Tell me."

"And I'm a complicated man. It's a pity Sherlock got to you first. Hmm, I really should get a pet."

"TELL ME!"

"Fine. Fine. Sherlock is buried under three feet of dirt, alive, but not for long. He has ten minutes before he dies." I went to pull the trigger again, but Moriarty held up his finger.

"But wait, there's more. Ms. Hudson is making a batch of her famous cakes, and in ten minutes, she will bite into one. These are very special cakes, for the sugar has been laced with poison. And, DI Lestrade, in exactly ten minutes from now his waiter will bring him and his date a drink. It too is laced with poison. And his date? Her name is Molly. A sweet, sweet girl. I went out with her for a bit, remember?"

"You're a monster."

"I wouldn't waste your breath, Dr. Watson. Your time starts in 3...2...1. It's time to chose which of the five survive!"

"F-five? Who's the fifth?"

"You are. Your axillary artery is nicked very slightly, yet definitely nicked. You will bleed to death in ten minutes" His laughing voice blocked out by the pure shock that ran through me.

"The game is afoot, Watson!"

Ten minutes...ten measly minutes. But who? Sherlock kept coming to my mind. I wanted to see him again so badly, but, but, the others. No. I had to save them all. I _had _too. I pulled the trigger, and a blast ricocheted throughout the building. But Moriarty was still there, smiling from ear to ear.

"Do you really think I would let you get a real gun?" He began laughing as I started to run. I didn't have time for him.

"Swim away little minnow! Swim, swim, swim as fast as you can!"

* * *

**Whew, that was intense. Who will Jon choose? Can she make it in time before she dies too? Leave a comment and tell me what you think. **


	3. Time

Chapter 3: Time

9.

I was running to the cemetery. The building was the warehouse to the right of the plot. I took out my phone and dialed Ms. Hudson. No ring. The line was cut. I groaned. Moriarty knew I would do that. There was no point in calling Greg. I dialed the first number that came to mind.

"Hello?"

"Steve?" I panted.

"Jon? Jon! What happened to you?"

"I need you to go to Baker Street. My old flat. Get Ms. Hudson out of there and do not let anyone eat the cakes! They're poisoned. Please, believe me." He had to believe me. He had to.

"I... I believe you. I'm on my way."

I didn't have time to say thank you. I hung up and dialed the police.

"DI Lestrade is going to die tonight."

9.

"What? Who is this?"

"An anonymous tip. His drinks are poisoned. The entire restaurant's are. You have nine minutes." I hung up. They would get him. They had to. I ran to his tombstone, a trail of blood marking my path. Sure enough, there was a shovel just waiting for me.

8.

I began to shovel, but it proved to be nearly impossible. My eyes kept shutting. I couldn't hold the shovel.

7.

My knees gave out only six inches in. There was no way I could get to him. I failed him, again. I failed him. I failed him. I beat the ground with my own good hand, until my knuckles hit a hollow object.

6.

I dug with one hand, the dirt turning into a disgusting mud with my blood as I tried to get to him.

5.

I got it. I uncovered the coffin. Quickly I tore the lid open...

Nothing. There wasn't one bloody thing in the coffin. Dammit! That bastard lied to me! My phone began to ring. I picked it up and wiped off as much of the dirt as possible.

4.

"Hello, Jon." It was him. Him! My words caught in my throat.

"Hello, Sherlock." He must have heard the pain in my voice.

"Jon. Jon! What's wrong?" His calm voice changed. It was the same as the terrified voice I heard when he thought he saw a gigantic hound.

"Nothing. I'm fine. It's just a cut. Where are you?"

"I'm...I'm fine too. I can escape. I'll be fine." His voice was back down to its calm level, but I could hear his troubled breathing.

"Sherlock, where are you?" I asked, swaying in a sudden dizziness.

"I don't know, Jon. For once, I don't know."

3.

I saw it. Next to his grave. There was a tombstone. Engraved on it was, "Jonelle H. Watson, a wonderful pet."

"Sherlock."

"Jon?"

"I'm coming for you Sherlock. I'm going to save you this time. I promise."

"I know you will, Jon." For the next few moments he went silent as I dug.

"Keep talking to me!" I ordered, digging up the dirt. I should have known.

"I can't waste my oxygen any more, Jon. I just called to say goodbye, again. I didn't even expect you to pick up. I'm-"

"You're what! Stay with me, Sherlock." I begged. "Please stay with me."

2.

"I'm sorry." I never heard him apologize like that before. On the roof it was bad. But this, this was even worse. It was honest, sincere. It put my heart back together and broke it right back into a million pieces.

"No, Sherlock. I'm here. I'm going to save you." I cried, the familiar pricking feeling at the back of my eyesl

"Jon...you can't always save me."

"Shut up! I'm your friend! I save you, you save me. That's how it works."

1.

I continued to dig, the sound of his voice coming nearer to me.

"Stay with me!"

.30

"Tell everyone that I am not a fake."

"You can tell them yourself."

.10

Hand full of dirt. Dump. Repeat.

.9

Sweat, tears, and blood poured down my face.

.8

I tried to use my other arm and cried out in pain.

.7

I was so close to him, yet so far away.

.6

No.

.5

Nonono!

.4

My fingers hit wood.

.3

"Sherlock!"

.2

Nothing.

.1

"Sher-

0.

It was too late. My eyes could no longer bear the weight of the world and fell closed as I landed with a thud on the box that dammed the most brilliant man on earth and his faithful assistant.

**The second to last chapter...ooo. I'm so close to finishing my first fanfic! What's going to happen next? Click the button to find out? P.S. I felt like Sherlock was a bit OOC in this one, but I promise to fix it in the next.**


	4. The Edge of Insanity

**The Final chapter of my fanfic, or is just the beginning of something else? O.o Anyways, here it is. Enjoy!**

Chapter 4:

My eyes finally fluttered open and stayed put. For the past few hours, or days, Hell years for all I knew, I had been waking up and falling back asleep. I saw dragons with the face of Moriarty, and once, I saw a fish that looked strangely close to Sherlock and was caught on a hook. But now, I could see. I was in a white hospital room with bandages covering my arm. How did I live? Sherlock-Where's Sherlock?! I jolted up, pulling at the tubes in my nose. I gagged as the tube travelled up my throat. I gagged as I felt the warm plastic slither up my throat. As I coughed, a blob next to me stirred. It was him! A wave of anger suddenly burst through me.

"You prick!" I yelled hoarsely. The strain sent my mind swirling. Sherlock's eyes met mine. His usual dark eyes were bloodshot and his scarf was tear-stained. It didn't stop me though.

"How dare you pretend to be dead! You don't understand how it felt to be broken again! Everytime I closed my eyes-" I took a deep breath to steady my heart, "I saw you-dying! You body lying broken on the ground, when it wasn't you! You don't know how it feels to watch the one person you love die!"

Sherlock rose up from his spot with a sparkle in his eye. Strange. Then I realized that it was a tear. The great Sherlock Holmes was crying.

"Yes I do. What do you think I have been doing for the past week?" God. He's right. I fell back on my pillows, then erupted in laughter. Sherlock stared at me for a moment, until he fell back in his own chair, that wonderful baritone laughter filling the room. I think I missed his rare laughter the most. The only time he ever laughed was when I did something stupid, and I honestly think I did stupid things more often just to hear that laugh.

"I guess we're even, now." I giggled.

"Guess so. What did Moriarty call me?" He asked.

"A trout!" I laughed, my sides and shoulder killing me, but it was worth it. I kept laughing until the empty silence made its way into my mind.

Sherlock was staring at me. He was staring at me, then at the floor when he felt my eyes on him. Was it something I said? For once, the great detective, the high functioning sociopath was nervous?

"What's wrong?" I asked, grimacing as a wave of pain flared up in my arm. Bloody-I think the hook was right on my old scar. Right on it! Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Jon...as I said before, you are my friend-my only friend, and you have proven indispensable to me, but as I also said before, I am married to my work." What the Hell was he rambling on about now?

"It would not work out with us. I do not express my emotions the same way others do. I never even knew Molly was infatuated with me until you pointed it out." True. He is an idiot. But what was he getting to?

"Sherlock, please explain to me what you are talking about." I groaned, giving him my signature look. Eye brows furrowed, jaw set, mouth clamped shut.

"You said you loved me." He answered, like duh, what else would he be talking about. I let a smile break through my look.

"Well, um," I said, trying to think of how to word it. "You see Sherlock," He cut into my sentence. "Its alright Jon, I understand that I am attractive to many women, but-" It was my turn to interrupt.

"Sherlock! For Pete's Sake, I don't love you like that!" I shouted. He let out an audible sigh. "You're my friend-my only friend. We're flatmates. We're partners in solving crimes. Of course I love you, but there are many types of love. The love of children to their parents, a man and his dog, you and your work, and of course, true friends." The detective was leaning forward, as if he was trying to soak up all this valuable information.  
He continued looking at me. The door creaked as it opened, and Sherlock greeted our visitor without taking his eyes off me.

"Lestrade."  
Greg looked over at me with a large smile.

"Jon, it's great to see you awake, maybe now this crazy bloke will let the doctors look at him." I glared at Sherlock.

"You haven't been checked out?"

"Of course not, I'm fine."

"He is fine now." Lestrade answered, "He's been waiting for you to wake up ever since he carried your bloody body here."

"Really?" I asked, looking over at my friend. Sherlock looked up, surprised.

"What, me? You needed my help."

"So you stayed here, not eating or sleeping, because I needed your help?"

"Yes."

"Sounds like love to me." I said, trying to drive my point home. Lestrade raised his eyebrows, but cleared his throat and turned to Sherlock.

"Holmes, I have bad news. Moriarty escaped. He killed two other people though, or at least we think it was him. Both drowned, but"

"They were found nowhere near water, and no water was found in their lungs." Sherlock finished.

"Then how did they drown?" I asked, as usual, clueless.

"Exactly." Sherlock pointed out. Well, maybe I was starting to ask the right questions. He grabbed his coat and began to walk towards the door.

"Come on Jon, we have a case!" He cried in excited glee. "I haven't had a case in months, I've been so bored."

"Sherlock." I tried to say.

"This could be our last chance to catch Moriarty, but knowing him, this will be only the start."

"Sherlock."

"We have to get ahead of him quickly."

"Sherlock." He only clapped his hands together in anticipation.

"This is going to be fun."

"Sherlock!"

"What?" He asked, finally turning around. I gestured to myself and the hospital room.

"Forget something?"

"You can check out on the way." He said, taking off. I stood up, my legs shaky but stable. Quickly, I pulled on a pair of trousers and a jumper laid out for me as Lestrade turned his back. The jumper proved a bit tricky.

"Greg?"

"Hm?"

"Can you help, please?" He turned and helped pulled my arm through my favorite cream jumper. I put on a sling and grabbed my clean, repaired phone.

"Are you seriously going?"

"I'm fine, besides, who's going to make sure he doesn't go jumping off anymore buildings?." I said this jokingly, but in reality, I was serious. I was not going to lose him again. I jogged down the hallway and checked myself out. The doctor was a bit surprised, but I am a doctor too, and told him that I knew my boundaries. Outside Sherlock was hailing a cab.

"Hand me your phone." He ordered. I handed him my phone.

"Finally, are you deaf?"

"Are you blind?"

"What do you mean?"

"I just got out here after checking myself out!"

"Hm." He said as some type of question or remark that I was probably supposed to understand. A cab pulled over and I opened the door for the texting man. I chuckled to myself as I ducked in after him, cradling my arm. It was as if he never left. I could only hope society would accept him as easily as I did. But then again, I never did stop believing in him. Sherlock Holmes is my best friend, and I'll always believe in him. (Even if he does leave 'experiments' in our sink)  
-JW

Sherlock peered over my shoulder. "Are you still inflicting your opinions on the world?"  
"They need to know about our 'reunion." I said with air quotes. He looked at me puzzling through his large goggles.

"What is in your hand?" I asked, pointing to the beaker as I thought of a good title for my most recent blog.

"Sulfuric acid. I'm doing an experiment. Its on-"

"I don't want to know. Just don't make a mess." I ordered. He came back over after putting the beaker down and glanced over my shoulder once again. I hated it when he did that.

"Your blogs are becoming more and more like fictional narratives." He said.

"Thanks."

"That was not a compliment. Blogs intended to be full of the truth."

"If people want bored to death, they can read yours." I remarked.

"The Science of Deduction is a wonderful site, you said so yourself, and did you honestly hear my voice in your head?"

"Yes."

"And they call me the psychopath, when you are threatening to kill men and putting yourself in places of extreme pain." I pretended like he did not say this. He opened the fridge and groaned.

"Where did you put my pig intestines?"

"In the trash." I answered. The Reunion? No, it was stupid. Together at Last? Ha. No.

"Why would you do such a thing?" He exclaimed, throwing himself on the couch like a small toddler.

"Because pig guts do not belong in the fridge." I replied absent-mindedly as I continued to type in possibilities. The Trout and the Minnow? No.

"I need those for an experiment." He whined. I said nothing, but continued typing. "I'm so bored."

"Jon?" "JON?" He asked loudly.

"What?" I sighed as my mother would when I continued to pull on her pants.

"I said I'm BORED!" He cried out. For a quick moment I glanced around the room. His gun was in the desk, good, he wouldn't be able to shoot that poor wall.

"I heard you the first time."

"I'm still bored."

"Go read a book."

"I've read them all."

"Then watch the telly." I said, not even daring to ask if he had truly read all the books, in fear that he would start to list off all of them..

"But nothing is on!" His muffled voice cried from the pillow. I decided to give up on trying to help him and finish my blog. There we go. It would have to do. I shut the laptop and grabbed my jacket.  
"Why don't we go to lunch?" I asked. My response was a drawn out groan.

"Fine, it's not like I have any other way to intellectually stimulate my brain today." He got up, tying his dressing gown tight. "Do I have to change?"

"You went to the Buckingham Palace wearing only a sheet. I'm sure going to some restaurant won't be too big of a deal." Sherlock stared at me for a moment, trying to decide whether I was being serious or sarcastic. "Serious." I said finally.

"Oh, I knew that." He said, pushing past me to get to the door. "What did you call it?"

"Call what?"

"You're blog! Are you sure that near death experience did not damage your brain?"

"I'm the same idiot, Sherlock."

"Good." He replied. Good was one of his favorite responses to many of my comments. Good.

"I called it, 'The Edge of Insanity'." I said, walking down the stairs. Sherlock laughed.

"Really? It wasn't one of your shows."

"You mean one of your shows." I poked him. "You're the one that likes those shows. I would rather watch better things like Lord of the Rings." Sherlock was about to say something when his phone buzzed. I didn't even have to ask. I was about to have another story to blog.

"Where to?"****

Cue Epic Song. I am finished! My first ever completed fanfic story! Whoo! Thanks for the wonderful review and all the favorites and follows! I might write another story with Jon and Sherlock mainly through her blog. I love the relationship between the two. :) 


End file.
